The phantom dragon soared in circles, floating on the breath of the dead souls. Then, suddenly, it swooped down.
Haplo crouched, instinctively, put his hands together to activate the rune-magic.
The Keeper of the Soul turned, regarded him with the large, dark eyes.
“Krishach will not harm you. Only your enemies need fear him.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Krenka-Anris has heard your plea, offers her help in your need.” The phantom dragon landed on the ground near them. It was not still, but remained in constant, restless motion—wings lifting, tail thrashing. The skeletal head wrapped in its cold, dead flesh turned constantly, keeping all in view of its empty, hollow eyes.
“I’m supposed to ride... that,” said Haplo.
“This could be a trick, to lure me to my death.” Iridal’s lips were ashen, trembling. “You elves are my enemies!”
The Kenkari nodded. “Yes, you are right, Magicka. But somewhere, sometime, someone must trust enough to reach out his hand to an enemy, though he knows it means that hand could be cut off at the wrist.”
The Keeper reached into the voluminous sleeves of his robes, withdrew from them a small, thin, nondescript-looking book. “When you reach Drevlin,” he said, offering the book to Haplo, “give this to our brothers, the dwarves. Ask them to forgive us, if they can. We know it will not be easy. We will not be able to easily forgive ourselves.”
Haplo took the book, opened it, flipped through it impatiently. It appeared to be of Sartan make, but it was written in the mensch languages. He pretended to study it. In reality, he was plotting his next move. He—
He stared at the book, looked up at the Kenkari.
“Do you know what this is?”
“Yes,” the Keeper admitted. “I believe it is what the Evil Ones were searching for when they entered our library. They were looking in the wrong place, however. They assumed it must be among the works of the Sartan, guarded and protected by Sartan runes. But the Sartan wrote it for us, you see. They left it for us.”
“How long have you known about it?”
“A long time,” said the Keeper sadly. “To our shame, a long time.”
“It could give the dwarves, the humans—anyone—tremendous power over you and your people.”
“We know that, too,” said the Keeper.
Haplo thrust the book into his belt. “It’s not a trap, Lady Iridal. I’ll explain on the way, if you’ll explain a few things to me, such as how Hugh the Hand managed to get himself resurrected.”
Iridal looked from the elves to the terrifying phantom to the Patryn who had taken away her son. Haplo’s magical defenses had begun to fade as he fought down his own fear and repugnance. The blue glow that illuminated the sigla dimmed and died.
Smiling his quiet smile, he held out his hand to Iridal.
Slowly, hesitantly, she took it.
38
Seven Fields, located on the floating continent of Ulyndia, was the subject of legend and song—particularly song, for it was a song that had, in reality, won the famous Battle of Seven Fields for the humans. Eleven years ago, by human time, the elven prince Rees’ahn and his followers heard the song that changed their lives, brought memories of an era when the Paxar elves had built a great kingdom, founded on peace.
Agah’ran—king at the time of the Battle of Seven Fields, now self-proclaimed emperor—had termed Rees’ahn a traitor, driven his son into exile, tried several times to have him killed. The attempts failed. Rees’ahn grew stronger, as the years passed. More and more elves—either swayed by the song or swayed by their own sense of outrage at the atrocities performed in the name of the Tribus empire—gathered around the prince’s standard.
The rebellion of the dwarves on Drevlin had proved “a gift of the ancestors” for the rebels, as the elves term it. Songs of thanksgiving had been offered in Prince Rees’ahn’s newly built fortress on Kirikari. The emperor had been forced to split his army, fight a war on two fronts. The rebels had immediately redoubled their attacks, and now their holdings extended far beyond the borders of the Kirikari Outlands.
King Stephen and Queen Anne were glad to see the Tribus elves pushed back, but were somewhat nervous to note the rebel elves moving closer to human lands. An elf was an elf, as the saying goes, and who knew but that these sweet-tongued rebels might start singing a different tune?
King Stephen had opened negotiations with Prince Rees’ahn and had, so far, been extremely pleased with what he heard. Rees’ahn not only promised to respect human sovereignty over the lands they already possessed, but offered to open up other continents in the Mid Realm to human occupation. Rees’ahn promised to stop the practice of using human slaves to power his elven dragonships. Humans would be hired to serve on these ships that made the vital water run to Drevlin. As part of the crew, the humans would receive their fair share of the water and be permitted to sell it in the markets of Volkaran and Ulyndia.
Stephen, in turn, agreed to end his own piratical attacks on elven shipping, promised to send armies, wizards, and dragons to fight with the rebels. Together, they would bring about the downfall of the Tribus empire. Matters had reached this stage in the negotiations when it was decided that the principals should meet face to face, hammer out the final terms and details. If a concerted push was going to be made against the imperial army, it had better come now. Cracks had been discovered in the seemingly impregnable fortress that was the Tribus empire. These cracks, so rumor had it, were spreading, widening. The defection of the Kenkari was the battering ram that would allow Rees’ahn to break down the gates and storm the Imperanon. Human assistance was vital to the prince’s plans. Only by joining together could the two races hope to defeat the strength of the imperial armies. Rees’ahn knew this; so did King Stephen and Queen Anne. They were prepared to agree to terms. Unfortunately, there were powerful factions among the humans who were deeply mistrustful of the elves. These barons were arguing publicly against Stephen’s proposed alliance, bringing up old injuries, reminding the humans of how they had suffered under elven rule.
Elves are sneaky and cunning, said the barons. This is all a trick. King Stephen’s not selling us to the elves. He’s giving us away!
Bane was explaining the political situation—as the child had heard it from Count Tretar—to a grimly silent and disinterested Hugh.
“The meeting between Rees’ahn and my father, the king, is an extremely critical one. Quite delicate,” said Bane. “If anything—the least, little thing—should go wrong, the entire alliance would collapse.”
“The king’s not your father,” Hugh said, the first words he’d spoken, almost since their journey had begun.
“I know that,” said Bane, with his sweet smile. “But I should get used to calling him that. So I won’t slip up, make a mistake. Count Tretar advised it. And I’m to cry at the funeral—not too much, or people won’t think I’m brave. But a few tears will be expected of me, don’t you think?” Hugh did not answer. The boy sat in front of him, perched securely on the pommel of the dragon saddle, enjoying the excitement of the ride from the elven lands of Aristagon into the human-occupied territory of Ulyndia. Hugh could not help recalling that the last time he’d made this journey, Iridal—
Bane’s mother—sat in the very same place, cradled securely in his arms. It was the thought of her that kept him from snatching up Bane and tossing the boy into the open skies.
Bane must have known this, for every once in a while, the boy would twist around, twiddle the feather amulet he wore in Hugh’s face.
“Mother sends her love,” he would say slyly.
The one drawback to Hugh’s plan was that the elves might take out their anger at him on their prisoner, on Iridal. Though now the Kenkari knew she was alive—at least Hugh hoped they knew—perhaps they could save her. He had the dog to thank for that.